Black Family Values
by Machiavelli Jr
Summary: The Black Family Tree just doesn't make sense, but when you really need to save face, you'll go to incredible lengths. Irma Crabbe was betrothed to the heir of the House of Black on her 17th birthday but a Muggle had other ideas. Crossover.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue:

"Ner ner ner nerner, can't catch me-ee!" caroled Sirius as he ran down the second-floor hall of 12 Grimmauld Place. He didn't quite know why he bothered, as Regulus certainly couldn't catch him with his legs stuck together, but making a lot of noise when there were dozens of relatives in the house was satisfying. There were certainly enough of them at the moment, crowded into the house to celebrate the coming-of-age of his cousin Bellatrix. Such occasions always brought swarms of ancient Blacks with dusty cloaks and dustier minds out of the woodwork, mouldy old fogeys and terrifying matrons from every corner of the world. If it was possible, Sirius disliked them even more than he did the permanent inhabitants of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place

Unfortunately, some of those mouldy old fogeys weren't totally deaf. "Sirius Orion Black! Stop that noise AT ONCE, do you hear? There are GUESTS in the house. Come here!" That was his grandfather. Not so bad as upsetting Mother – he tended to forget quickly – but teasing Regulus wasn't really worth the trouble.

Sirius stopped the noise but, instead of going downstairs to be punished, raced into the Green Drawing Room and – stopped dead. An immensely old man with a huge nose and hardly any hair was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, with a half-full decanter of something amber-coloured on a side-table and a battered, leather-bound book in his hands. Sirius thought he was asleep, but a gruff muttering from the armchair proved him wrong,

"Dammit, hasn't he heard of a Drying Charm? He married old Morrison's niece, surely he _knew_. She couldn't possibly have not told him for seventy years, however dense the man was. That's good, though. That's dashed good. A hand-rail round Hyde Park, indeed. Young Sirius might give him a run for his money, there, if half what that good-for-nothing-"

Shocked to hear his own name, Sirius spoke up, "Yes, sir?"

"What's that? Who? Oh, hello there. You'd be Selina's boy, would you?"

Sirius didn't have the foggiest idea who Selina was, but was reasonably sure he wasn't 'her boy', "No, sir. I'm Sirius. You… were talking about me." Sirius found a bit more courage, "And anyway, who are you? All the other old- er, guests are in the dining-room."

The old man chuckled throatily, "_You're_ Sirius? I can see what dear old Cassandra means. You'd be my, let's think now, great-nephew? I'm Alphard, youngster. Pleased to meet you." The old man held out a hand, which Sirius shook gingerly.

"Er, and you, Uncle Alphard." Sirius had never heard of an Uncle Alphard, and hope sparked within him that this wasn't another old git who'd lecture him on purity and propriety, shake his head over a Gryffindor in the family and tell him off for causing a racket. The next words almost dashed this hope.

"Come to look at the family tapestry, have you? Get a look at your glorious forebears. Follow the untainted line of descent on both sides from John of Gaunt himself?" His face might have screwed up slightly, but under the wrinkles it was difficult to tell.

Sirius had forgotten this was the room with the family tree, which he normally tried hard to avoid, "Are you – no, Uncle Alphard. Not today." _No sense in upsetting the old geezer just yet_, thought Sirius. _He's still better company than Mother's friends downstairs, or Kreacher, or…_

"You should, boy. There's a wealth of stories between those lines."

_Yeah yeah, I know,_ said Sirius under his breath, _proud Wizarding tradition, Slytherin since the Founders' day, heard it all before._ But the old man continued,

"Look at these dates. Go on boy, closer. The tapestry doesn't bite – at least, it never used to. Can't tell what Walburga's done to the old place over the years." Obediently, Sirius knelt to look at the huge family tree, feigning concentration on the gold lettering where a gnarled hand reached out to touch a particular line, "Notice anything strange there?"

"Well, only that my granddad was… thirteen? That can't be right. He was the same age…" Sirius trailed off, bewildered. His grandfather was young, but surely he couldn't have been _that_ young. Maybe it was a mistake.

"As you are now, yes. Or rather, no. You see, the _family_" – definitely a sneer there – "isn't quite as pure and righteous as your mother would like to think. Irma, lovely, innocent Irma. No sense, that gel. None at all. Took after her grandfather." The old geezer seemed to have forgotten his point, but abruptly came back to it, "Be that as it may, you don't really think a boy in his third year of school fathered Walburga, do you?" From his tone, it was obvious that the idea was absurd.

Sirius couldn't quite see it; Marcus Davies was only a fourth-year and _he'd_, well, Sirius wasn't quite sure what, but he'd done quite a lot, "Why not? I would – maybe not with anyone related to _Crabbe_." He was more than a bit unnerved by this old man and his idea of a fun afternoon, but did his best to project an air of worldly braggadocio. The idea of Crabbe – a large and vicious Slytherin sixth-year – was definitely unsettling in this context.

"Heh, I don't doubt it boy, though Irma might have been more to your taste than her nephew, but poor young Cygnus wouldn't have known what to do with a woman if she'd stripped naked and dragged him into the bushes." Sirius liked this idea much more than tales of perverted ancestors and drifted off into a pleasant daydream about that sixth-year in Ravenclaw, then came back to earth with a bump.

"Cygnus Black wasn't your grandfather at all, Sirius. Any fool should have guessed that, though they all pretend not to know. No, Walburga's father was – well, I'll have to start at the beginning. It was in the summer of '24, I think, and Irma Crabbe had, let me see, just left Hogwarts, that's right. Stop me if I'm boring you."

For once, boredom was the last thing on Sirius' mind. He wanted to know who his grandfather was, and why a thirteen-year-old boy had had to get married, and…

A/N: Sorry the prologue's a bit short. This fic was inspired by a discussion on the Canon Quick-Check thread in the Sugar Quill forums (sugarquill dot net), in which the dates on the Black Family Tree were dissected and found impossible. Maybe, I suggested, this was done deliberately, to hide the 'undesirables' of the family history. Here's the story one of those undesirables, whom you may recognise. Before the Holy Grail, before the Ark of the Covenant, before monkey-brains and Short Round, were the Sword of Caractacus and a young Irma Crabbe. Enjoy!

A/N on the A/N: This is therefore at least a 3-way crossover, but no knowledge at all of the other two canons is required. I can't tell you what they are, as that would give away too much of the plot. One is very minor and you'll have to pay attention to notice it at all.


	2. Tedium, interrupted

**Black Family Values, Chapter 1.**

It was a glorious summer's day in the year 1924, but Irma Crabbe was seeing less of it than she could have wished, buried in the dusty innards of the wizarding world's oldest and least-frequented museum with three superannuated academics and a large pile of Celtic artifacts to test for dangerous spells. A rather effeminate voice interrupted her desultory attempts to cast _specialis revelio_ on a cracked pot,

"Oh Ir-ma! Be a darling, go to the Grint and look up the Sword of Caractacus for me, will you? Some blasted American thinks he's found it and I need to know what powers it's reputed to have. The more outlandish the better – if he's disappointed enough he might let us keep it." That was the voice of Professor Evillard Featherstonehaugh, who had adopted Irma as his personal factotum and research assistant the day she arrived in Oxford with a pretty set of NEWT certificates and very little else, beyond a vague notion that magical history was an interesting and appropriate pastime for a properly-brought-up young witch. As usual, he wanted the impossible done with a minimum of fuss and bother.

Irma gave the Professor a cheery smile and waved across the nearly-empty back room to Agnes Morrison, who had just come in. As usual, the dour Glaswegian witch didn't bother to respond. Irma gave it up as a bad job and left, heading downstairs, out of the Scarrow Conservatory for Artifacts of Magic, and up St. Cross Street in the direction of the Cameras. Muggles (and even most wizards) believed the Radcliffe Camera was a 'mere' extension of the Muggle Bodleian Library; the existence of the Grint below its foundations was not so much secret as forgotten by most of the wizarding world.

It was the despair of the scholarly Lady Valentina Crabbe that so few wizards had any respect for 'serious' history and it was she who had dispatched her niece to the Conservatory with a letter of recommendation to the Curator, two hundred Galleons allowance and the wise advice to 'do nothing to dishonour the family, be respectful to your elders and avoid young men at all costs'. Irma had never been clear on what was wrong with young men as a species (though some of those at Hogwarts had been _most_ crude and ill-bred), but put it out of her mind as she arrived at the Cameras.

The most convenient of the Grint's several doors was disguised as a fire-escape, set into the side of the Radcliffe Camera. Irma muttered the password (_non obliviscor_) and the battered door slid aside to reveal a winding staircase, which carried her down to the Grand Reading Room. As she entered the magnificent, vaulted room with its wood-panelled carrels and fifty foot high bookcases lining the walls, she ran over what she would need to answer the Professor in her head. You could never go far wrong with the bald statements of the _CRB_ or Bagshot's _History_, but there would be no extravagant legends in there. Bagshot had taught Professor Cuthbert Binns everything he knew about 'solid, believable, verifiable _fact_'. Said fact certainly didn't include anything vaguely controversial, doubtful or legendary. On the whole, it didn't include much other than Goblin, Giant and Troll Rebellions. Outrageous legends were a speciality of that new Fellow, though, what was his name? The German. Grendelwaltz? Something like that. Anyway, his book on artifacts of power was exactly the sort of stuff Featherstonehaugh would want – he was apparently obsessed with the Powers and Dominations to an unhealthy degree.

Irma reached the main desk of the Grint before she emerged from her reverie. The librarian was nowhere to be seen, but Irma, wise in the ways of Oxford's libraries, simply stood and waited. Even clearing your throat politely tended to attract a disapproving glare and extreme rudeness. As Irma wanted to get something done, she stayed quiet until the duty librarian returned. Eventually, the wrinkled hag – not an insult, she actually was one – emerged from her dusty office and filled in, with her usual bad grace, a stack-request for the _Corpus Reliquarum Britannicum_, Bagshot's _Longer History_ volume 2 and Grindelwald's _Relics and Mysteries: the Powers we Know Not._ Glaring, the hag informed Irma that she could perform the retrieving spells herself if she knew how (ordinary Summoning Charms were strictly forbidden) or wait half an hour. Irma had always been useless at Charms, so wandered off to Queen Street for a coffee.

The Coffee House (there were fifty coffee houses in the city, but only one merited the capitals) was a hive of cheerful activity. Irma still felt a thrill of excitement at entering a Muggle place so openly, but Oxford was so eccentric that a girl in a conservative black dress and plain hat was almost invisible, witch or no. Sometimes, Irma even wondered what the point of the Statute was. Muggles came up with such strange ideas themselves that magic wouldn't be remarked if it was right under their noses. In the Coffee House that afternoon were three men in evening dress, a woman wearing a 16th-century ruff and gown, one bagpiper in full Highland regalia of crimson tartan, two warlocks poring over _Transfiguration Today_ in broad daylight and some rather shabby-looking undergraduates talking at the tops of their voices about elves.

By the time Irma had drunk her black coffee, alone in a quiet corner, the half-hour wait was over. Returning to the Grint, she settled down with her three massive volumes to some 'light reading'. After half an hour, she'd started to enjoy picking through the CRB's grave-spotted pages and, much later, was annoyed to find she'd run clear through the Roman period and was into the Celtic church, which was unlikely to have anything to do with the semi-legendary sword of a first-century pagan rebel. Sighing, she turned to the unprepossessing brick that was Bagshot's immensely dull _History_. It didn't have anything useful; it barely mentioned that Caractacus had been a wizard, let alone his sword.

Grindelwald's book, though, was a lot better. It had several pages on the sword, including useful snippets such as its forging from an unknown metal in dragon-fire, its reputed power to find its way back to its owner across any distance and most interesting of all a clearly-censored reference to its use in a ritual for immortality. Irma was rather scared by the latter. The Crabbes were an ancient and traditional family, but they had never used capital-D Dark Magic, the Wild Magic of ancient lore with its degrading focus on blood, death and _immoral practices_.

At length, Irma finished her reading and returned to the Conservatory through the summer evening. Professor Featherstonehaugh took her notes with a vague gesture of thanks and went back to a densely-written article which had something to do with the use of reliquaries in magical rituals, as far as Irma could tell from a quick glance over his shoulder. Resolving to find out more about this new use for either relics or swords, Irma left the Conservatory and went home to her bright, neat, empty rooms on the unfashionable but quiet Iffley Road.

The next morning dawned just as bright as the last, and as usual Irma was up at the crack of dawn to perform her toilette and get ready for another day at the Conservatory. At seven-thirty she was, as always, the first to arrive in the cavernous back room and occupied herself by attempting to clean up some of the dust and litter which looked not to have been touched since the Founders' day. Unfortunately, household charms were among the many aspects of wand-work she had never really got the knack of, so for the most part her Scourgifying just moved the dust around. For a moment, she allowed herself to daydream about the day when she would be Irma Esquimelina Crabbe Black with two silver services, a house-elf, a library the size of Hogwarts' and the best of High Society gathering around her.

At some point in her dream, the door opened, then slammed shut, startling her. Silhouetted against a large window was a short, slim young wizard dressed in archaic robes. Sweeping a bow, he introduced himself in a strong German accent,

"Good mornink, madam. I am Professor Baron Hermann von Grindelwald, of Mannheim and Ariel no, _Oriel_ College, at your service. And you, I presume, are ze enchanting and most brilliant Miss Crabbe of whom Herr Professor Featherstonehaugh has such a high opinion."

Irma had never been called enchanting or brilliant before, and wasn't entirely sure how to respond to a handsome Baron paying her compliments. In the absence of anything more sensible, she blushed furiously and replied that she didn't know about the rest, but she was indeed Irma Crabbe and pleased to make his acquaintance.

Having dispensed with the formalities, the Baron certainly didn't waste any time getting down to business, "What do you know, Miss Crabbe, about the Sword of Caractacus?"

Nothing could have surprised her more, and her reaction was automatic – a brief summary of what she had learned the previous day, with the caveat that most of it was clearly unfounded speculation.

"I know that," he replied, "but it is gratifying to see that you have read my book. As a matter of fact, zere is more truss in it zan you might sink."

"Oh, you're _that _Grindelwald! I had no idea. Of course, you would be far more competent to judge than I."

"_Ja_, zere is only one Grindelwald. You are... surprised?" He looked offended that anyone could doubt this _child_ was a Fellow and one of the foremost experts on magical relics in the world, "No matter. I heard you had been researching ze Sword from ze Professor, and I haff a task for you, should you choose to accept it."

"What manner of task, Mr Gr... er, I mean, _Baron _Grindelwald? Some research, perhaps?" Irma was used to academics arriving with leg-work to be done, though most were considerably older, uglier and less exotic than the little Baron.

"Not research. Your Professor's worry was garbled – I fed it to him zat way – but zere iss indeed an American team which believes it hass located ze tomb of Calgacus, who you will recall held ze Sword some years after Caractacus. I vant you to go to zeir camp. If zey haff found nossink, zo much ze better. If zey haff ze Sword of Caractacus, you must steal it."

Irma hadn't the foggiest idea what she was supposed to say to that. He had lied to Professor Featherstonehaugh and now he wanted her to steal something? Only from foreigners, but still, it was hardly seemly. She took refuge in propriety, "Oh, but I couldn't. It's against the law to rob graves, never mind robbing people, and I'm _quite_ sure I couldn't risk my reputation with my fiancé's family – they are among the highest in the land, you know."

Grindelwald spoke again, in hypnotic, insistent tones. Even his accent seemed to weaken, "They are Muggles – there is no crime in retrieving magical artifacts from them, and this is important. Whatever else happens, the Sword of Caractacus must not fall into their hands – into any hands, because it is so much more than a sword. It is... _immortality_." Irma gasped in shock, but he continued, "Tell me, what do you know about the Blood Moon Druids?"

There was no resisting that command, and Irma responded automatically, "A native pre-Roman cult, supposedly very dark, practised Muggle sacrifice and maybe wizard as well. That's all, I'm afraid."

Grindelwald nodded in satisfaction, and replied in his normal voice "That is as much as you need to know. Ze Sword of Caractacus was forged by them, and it is said to hold the knowledge of immortality, perhaps even ze soul of one of zeir great mages. I want zose secrets, and zere are few others I vould trust with zem. Zo, you vill go to Mount Gropius and find zis American and his team – his name iss Doktor Henry Jones and he hass given ze American ausorities much trouble viz his

investigations into vat ze Muggles call ze 'supernatural'. If zey haff ze Sword, you vill confisscate it. If zey do not, you vill varn zem zat it iss not vise to keep searching." As he finished speaking, Irma thought she saw a flash of light, but decided she must have imagined it.

When she spoke, she felt much happier about his plan – it was undeniably eccentric, but there was nothing actually wrong with it and he was a lovely man – surely a Baron knew more about what was necessary than a girl from the middle of nowhere, "Oh, of course I will, Baron. This is so _exciting_ and I quite agree that Muggles mustn't get hold of such a valuable and, and dangerous thing. Why, it will be quite an adventure. I shall leave tomorrow – no, I must finish my work here first. On Friday, then. I suppose I should have a word with Alphard in the Department of International Co-operation – he'll know exactly what to do." In truth, Irma had only met the irascible Alphard Black twice, but they had got on well and he did have an incredible savoir-faire about him; if anyone would know what she should do, it would be him. If her husband turned out like Alphard, she mused, it would be very paradise.

A harsh German voice brought her thoughts down to earth with a thump, "If you must, but do not tell him everysink. Zis can be our secret. I am zhure you vill manage quite vell viz Doktor Jones. If you vould like to know more about zis man, your friend at ze International Office vill probably be of assistance. Good luck, and may your Godz be viz you." With an almighty and rather theatrical crack, he Disapparated.

Irma was utterly flabbergasted, and found it very difficult to concentrate on her work for the rest of the day. Indeed, the Celtic pots were left mostly unexamined as she dreamt of rescuing ancient heirlooms from evil foreigners and Muggles, or of being a Professor herself as well as hostess, mother, famous beauty and renowned writer. She could have all that, she knew, if she could just do this one thing for Baron Grindelwald.

A/N: At long last, the first proper chapter. I've been far too busy at university to get any writing done in months, but I'm back and full of ideas. For those waiting for more of the Diggory Papers, I'm a bit stuck in the middle of the Ball.

I didn't name Binns 'Cuthbert' – is it canon?

The SCAM, if anyone cares, is based in Magdalen (pronounced Maudlin, home of many scams and much magic) College and on the subject of silly pronunciations the Professor's name is pronounced Evvy-yar Fanshaw. Honestly.

'Powers and Dominations' is from the Bible via Simon R. Green and refers to stuff and beings even wizards think of as supernatural – the Grail legends being a good example.

AFAIK there are no legends about Caractacus's sword.

Except for the Transfiguration buffs the clientele of Queen Street Coffee House is that of Sunday 29th October, 2006.

CRB or _Corpus Reliquarum Britannicum_ Body of British Relics.


End file.
